The Road to Baton Rouge

After a long and restful night at the Empress Hotel, I awoke hungry and ready to hit the road. During checkout I asked the lady at the desk if she knew of any particularly good places to grab breakfast. She mentioned a place called Dejavu, but couldn't remember how to get there and could only tell me it was in the French Quarter somewhere. So I headed to the French Quarter, figuring that I'd find somewhere good to eat regardless of whether or not I found Dejavu.

As I wandered the streets, I noticed that many of them were soaked and (relatively) clean. I soon found out why when I wandered upon a truck-sized street scrubber making the rounds. Upon asking one of the workers where to eat for breakfast, I was directed several blocks down and over in search of some small place whose name I cannot remember since I never actually found it. What I did find was a guy relaxing on the sidewalk in his wheelchair, his leg bound and propped up in front of him. When asked if he knew of anywhere good to eat, he replied "Oh, yeah! There's this awesome place called Dejavu- its right around that corner there....". And that was that.

The sign doesn't lie when it says "good food"

Dejavu is definitely not a family sort of place- one has to be 21 just to get in the door, and upon entering I was greeted by a row of electronic poker machines, a haze of smoke, and a few rather haggard looking individuals hunched over the bar. I sat where I could see my bike through the door and ordered migas (essentially a mexican omelet), which came with a bowl of perfectly cooked grits (I know my grits) and an english muffin. Halfway through my meal, a young man in a bouncer's t-shirt staggered into the bar, made for the nearest stool, sat down, and proceeded to cradle his head in his hands for the remainder of the meal. A woman, dressed in miniscule animal print short shorts followed him in and sat beside him briefly before patting him absently on the back and wandering outside, cigarette smoke trailing behind her as she moved.

After settling my bill ($5.85 plus tax and tip), I struck out through the heart of the city in search of the river road and a levee top multi-use path that goes from New Orleans to Baton Rouge. My trip across the city was uneventful, save for one flat tire (a faulty tube- I have yet to have a single puncture flat), which I patched without further incident.

I soon found the path, and struck out northward along the riverside, passing walkers and fellow cyclists, riding past slums and shipyards, unidentifiable industrial plants and gated neighborhoods, insulated from it all by a slope and a seventy five foot wide strip of mowed grass.

I saw at least ten ships of this size or larger, and barges beyond counting

After about 20 miles on the levee path, I exited, jumped on to 61 North, and steeled myself for a long, hot ride to Baton Rouge. I rode past refineries and swamps, sugarcane fields and marshes. Bullfrogs the size of squirrels littered the side of the road in places, flattened and dessicated by the heat, their carcasses accompanied by the bodies of racoons that had likely come to feed on them and the bodies of armadillos who seem unable to avoid death by car no matter the location or season.

I went through bottles and bottles of water, stopping frequently at service stations to refill and purchase gatorade. I think this day marked the first day in which my gatorade bill exceeded my food bill.

Heh

Lunch was two bananas, two oranges, and an entire bag of potato chips, which I relished for their saltiness. I wasn't even hungry- I find that I rarely am in the heat, and have to remind myself to eat much of the time. After lunch, I slept for two hours in the grass under an oak tree before resuming my northward trek.

As evening fell, I got another flat, which I repaired in front of a Wal-Mart's garden section. I was in surburbia again at this point- the far outskirts of Baton Rouge, which meant that of all the people who passed me on the sidewalk, my bike upturned with wheel removed, panniers emptied and belongings stacked on the sidewalk, only one woman asked if I was ok, needed any help, or had someone coming to get me. I replied that I was all right, the bike would shortly be repaired and I'd be on my way, and did she know of anywhere good to get dinner? She directed me to a Mexican restaurant a few miles up 61, so upon completing my repairs and repacking my panniers I headed straight there. After locking my bike up with the employees' bikes in the kitchen entrance I ordered dinner and then forced myself to eat the entire helping of fajitas. I was a mess at this point- my shirt was streaked white with lines of salt and I felt exhaustion creeping up on me.

After eating, I headed down a side road in search of any place to set up my hammock and collapse for the night. A half mile down the road or so, I came upon a vast green lawn filled with mature trees and a trim older house in the middle of it all. A little white haired lady was puttering about the lawn, so I pulled over and introduced myself, explaining that I was biking to Houston and then Colorado, and would love to be able to set up my hammock in her yard if she wouldn't mind. She checked my ID to "make sure you are who you say you are" and then called her husband out to see me before walking with me down to the edge of the yard where I showed them how my hammock worked then put it up between two trees.

Her name is Iris Lambert and her husband's name is John. They will have been married 61 years this October. They have three grandchildren in college, and two of their sons live in houses behind theirs on their extensive property. Iris set me up with a bucket of water so I could rinse my salt-stained shirt, and shortly after I finished setting up my hammock she showed up toting an old rug so I could put it under my hammock and not get my feet dirty when I got in and out. Before I turned in for the night, she showed up again, this time with a bottle of gatorade to make sure I had something to drink, and she invited me to use their bathroom if I needed.

By far my most comfortable campsite yet

A cool breeze blew in all night off the pasture adjacent to their property and I slept well- so well in fact that I didn't wake until almost 8 AM when the sun finally fell on my hammock. As I finished packing up, John and Iris came out, exclaiming that they were glad I was all right and they had been a little concerned for me when I didn't rise and 7 but didn't want to disturb me. Oh, and Iris had made pancakes for breakfast and had one left over and wanted to know: did I want it? I gratefully accepted and was treated to a breakfast of pancake with peanut butter and freshly stewed figs. Before leaving, I had a small bag of snack bars and another gatorade pressed upon me, and I took a picture of John and Iris in front of the home where they have lived their married life.

My lovely hosts and their home. Thank you, John and Iris!

I gave them both and hug and was on my way north again. I write this now from a Wendy's on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. I'll be heading west from here, and will shortly pass the 400 mile mark on this trip. Its partly cloudy right now, and I hope this weather holds.